


I Don't Exist If I Don't Have Her (The Sun Doesn't Shine, The World Doesn't Turn)

by louisniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cunnilingus, F/F, Femslash, French Louis, King Dan Deakin is a total arse, Louis is a Lesbian, M/M, Niall is a French runaway, Princess Harry Styles, Princess Louis Tomlinson, Vaginal Fingering, Zayn was straight before he met niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:11:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisniall/pseuds/louisniall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Louis!” Caroline shouts. It earns her a smack on the head with the comb and a very colorful shouting. “Your father wants to get business done with England and the only way to do so is through you.”</i><br/>"I'm not going."<br/>"Okay," Caroline says. "Then I'll drag you there by your hair and force you to have tea with the princess instead of a simple trading deal." She tugs harshly on a strand of Louis' hair but her smile is reflected in the mirror. Louis scoffs.<br/>"Tea with the Princess of England? I'd rather become a peasant."<br/>"She isn't that bad, Louis. I even hear she's pretty. Très jolie."<br/>Louis smiles. Only Caroline would do that — not want to kick her out for the whole Louis likes girls thing. It certainly didn't go over well with her father. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>the one where louis and harry are princesses of historically rivaled countries and they end up falling in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Exist If I Don't Have Her (The Sun Doesn't Shine, The World Doesn't Turn)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bearandleonardwrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearandleonardwrite/gifts).



> hello hello hello!!!
> 
> first of all, there is some french in here, so if you don't understand anything, PLEASE look it up. or don't but you'll probably be a bit confused
> 
> thank you to [skye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strong/) and [ellie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rightnow) for betaing this terrifying monster! there may have been some tears involved in writing this. ANY OTHER MISTAKES ARE MINE MINE MINE !!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> also thank you to the moderators of the[Autumn Cozy Fic Exchange](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/autumncozyficexchange) for giving me extra time to write this! you're the BOMB
> 
> i have a few _quick_ things to dish out before you begin reading, so **PLEASE** take some time to read them:
> 
> \- the french in this may be a bit inadequate because im currently almost failing french, so it's used as little as possible. **if you speak french and anything is BLARINGLY wrong, please let me know!**  
>  \- secondly, this was rushed and it's super super SUPER bad, the smut sucks, it's my **first time writing femslash, so be nice!**  
>  \- i tried to keep this relatively historically accurate, but like none of these treaties happened and france and england hated each others' guts in the 1760's so yeah  
> \- this ending is pure crap, it's rushed just like this entire thing and some of it doesn't make sense like somehow Nick Grimshaw shows up and Louis hits him in the nuts i honestly don't even know where it came from but it happens stay tuned  
> \- ehhhh thats about it once again **BE NICE I'VE NEVER WRITTEN FEMSLASH BEFORE** comments and kudos are always appreciated.... **if you don't fancy the way i've said/ done something, i don't wanna hear about it in the comments, thanks! if you wouldn't say it to your mother, don't say it to me :)**
> 
> title is from "steal my girl" by one direction!
> 
> ENJOY!

When Princess Louis has to go to fucking _England_ of all places for a business meeting, she might flip a shit on her hairdresser.

“England, of all places! _Quelle horreur_!” She throws her hands up in the air, literally, and runs a hand through her hair, messing it up and making Caroline behind her sigh.

“ _Arrêtez-vous!_ ” She says. “Stop!”

“Sorry,” Louis says. “But _fucking_ England! The scum of the earth, with their damn _food_.”

“That’s no way to talk, Princess,” Caroline says. “Princesses are _nice_.”

“Well this _princess_ is annoyed at her father for making her go meet the _princess_ of England. I bet she’s a right _whore_.”

“Louis!” Caroline shouts. It earns her a smack on the head with the comb and a very colorful shouting. “Your father wants to get business done with England and the only way to do so is through _you_.”

"And why is that?" she asks, turning her head to face Caroline and earning another glare. " _J' ai vingt-et-un ans_! What can I _possibly_ do that my fifty-three-year-old father can't?"

"Louis darling, you know he's sick. _La grippe_."

"The fucking _flu_ is no excuse for him not to grow a pair of balls and get his sorry ass to London," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not going."

"Okay," Caroline says. "Then I'll drag you there by your hair and force you to have _tea_ with the princess instead of a simple _trading deal_." She tugs harshly on a strand of Louis' hair but her smile is reflected in the mirror. Louis scoffs.

" _Tea_ with the Princess of England? I'd rather become a peasant."

"She isn't that bad, Louis. I even hear she's pretty. _Très jolie._ "

Louis smiles. Only Caroline would do that — not want to kick her out for the whole _Louis likes girls_ thing. It certainly didn't go over well with her father. She hasn't been able to talk to her siblings since Monday when it happened.

"When am I going?" She asks as Caroline packs away her things. Louis runs a hand over her hair and finds its in a tight braid that just reaches her shoulders. She smiles.

"Tomorrow I believe you leave. We'll reach the channel by Friday and it'll take maybe a day from there to reach London, if I remember correctly."

"And what exactly am I doing, again?" Louis asks.

Caroline sighs. "Something along a trading deal? _Je ne sais pas._ For all I know you could be declaring war, darling."

Louis' heart skips a beat. She makes it a point to read the papers on her way there even if her English is meager and her formal French is quite honestly worse. When she realises Caroline has gone off somewhere, she stands, stretches out her legs, fixes her skirt and top, and trudges up to her room on the rickety old stairs and sits herself on her windowsill. She stares out quietly at the little always-there rally of people outside the palace and bites her lip.

If Princess Louis could do one thing for her country, the Great France, she'd get them out of this shitty internal war and provide them with food and maybe modernise them like she knows England is doing. She'd certainly undo her fathers' work of sending hundreds of men to the New World for _fur_. She'd have them come back, resupply, build new ships, and send them to settle rather than eat up the New World beaver population.

Of course, she knows, if she did that then England would take over their territory and have an empire in practically every place in the world. The sun never sets on the British Empire, _vraiment._ So for now she hops off of her ledge and puts on her boots and grabs a sack from her closet, runs down to the kitchen and takes armfuls of bread and fruits, and trudges through the mud to the gates where the people rally.

" _Bonjour, mes amies. Je suis desolée_ , this is all we've got right now," she says as she hands each eager person something from her sack — the woman with a child in her arms gets two pieces of bread but remarkably no one complains, it's all a flood of _merci princesse._ She smiles at each of the people as they thank her deeply and doesn't even cringe when she feels her fathers eyes on her from inside the palace.

She says goodbye to the people and heads back inside, stepping in puddles of mud on purpose and walking through the dining room and kitchen before "remembering" to take off her boots. "Louis," says a voice from behind her and — oh, it's just the king. Her _father_. She snorts. "What was that?"

"What was what?" She asks innocently. "Can't a girl go outside?"

"And give away our food?" he says. " _Jamais_."

"Why not?" She questions, folding her arms over her chest. "Is it a bad thing that I'm attempting to help out our poor, _starving_ , warring country?"

Her father pinches the bridge of his nose and leaves without a word. _Prick_ , she thinks.

Louis faintly hears her other sisters laughing and her heart aches a little. It's only been a few days since she's not been allowed to talk to them, and their age gap is revolutionary, but she grew up caring for Charlotte and Felicite and Daisy and Phoebe and now with two new royal babies and a newly dead Queen, her heart aches so much more.

She peeks around the corner of the kitchen and is relieved when the only person there is Liam, the chef, preparing their evening meal. "Hello Louis," he says, smiling.

"Hi Liam," she says. She cocks her head to the side. "What're you making?"

"Bouillabaisse," he says.

"Oh," Louis says. She _hates_ that. "Nice."

"I know you hate it," he says, setting down a basket of seafood and eyeing the empty bread basket. "King's orders."

 _Of course_ , she thinks. She says nothing though, just pats Liam on the shoulder slips up the creaky stairs and opens her sisters' door.

God, they're gorgeous. They look just like her mother. And they don't hate her — they look at Louis like she's they're world and they jump into her arms. "Louis!" one of the twins shouts and kisses her cheek. Louis sees the new babies on the floor drooling all over themselves.

It's sad how really Ernie is set to be the next king if their father dies. Something like a two-year-old baby will rule France before twenty-one-year-old Louis. Or maybe she wasn't listening in that lecture. She isn't sure.

She kisses her sisters and shakes Daisy off her leg, sitting down on her haunches so her skirt doesn't rip. "I've missed you," she says. " _Beaucoup_."

"We missed you too, Louis," Felicite says from her spot next to Doris. "Where've you been?"

Louis shrugs. "I've been in the palace, darling," she says, petting Phoebe's head and tickling under Ernie's chin as he crawls over. "I've just been busy, loves."

"You haven't eaten with us in _days_ Louis," Charlotte says. Louis feels a twinge of sympathy for her sister — she's at the age where she'll be forced to find a prince now that she's started bleeding and Louis knows she'd understand her if she told her why she'd been away from her sisters.

"Alright," she says. "Alright, I'll tell you."

She's pretty sure six sets of ears perk up and six pairs of eyes flicker up to Louis' face as she finally settles onto her arse in a more comfortable position. "I told Dan —"

" _Père_ ," Felicite says. "He's daddy, Louis."

Louis has to physically try not to roll her eyes. Although she didn't mind when her real father passed away and his mother married Mark, after he passed of a heart attack, she married Dan and Louis _hates_ him. "I told _père_ that I don't want to marry a prince." She lets it sink in for a second, and maybe only Charlotte understands. "I want to marry a princ _ess_."

It's so silent she could hear a pin drop. The only noise is her heart pounding in her ears as Felicite gives her a funny look. "You don't want to kiss a boy, Louis?"

Louis shakes her head. "I'd rather kiss a girl."

"Kiss me!" Phoebe shouts, and jumps into her lap. Louis plants a kiss on her forehead and rubs her back and silently hopes it was a good idea to tell her sisters.

"Girls, you can't talk about this to Dan, though, yeah? He isn't too happy, loves."

\---

"I don't want you near my children," the King says, putting a book back on his shelf. "You'll turn them into one of you."

Louis huffs in annoyance. "Dan —"

" _Monsieur,_ " he corrects. "You will call me sir or Your Highness." He clears his throat. "I don't care for what you have to say, really. You're being shipped off to England in an hour anyway. _Au revoir_."

Louis is fuming. She's never been so angry in her life, and she packs all of her things like she's going away for years instead of days.

When the carriage arrives she kisses all of her sisters and seats herself comfortably across from Caroline and from her assistant-type-best-friend Zayn. She smiles meekly at Zayn as they travel down _Rue Blanc_. Zayn kicks her foot and raises his eyebrows in question, but Louis waves him off.

(Louis swears to Mary that if she liked boys, she'd be on him in a minute. He's the most beautiful person she's ever seen in her whole entire life, really. When he was young and snuck into the palace for food, she kept him hidden away in her closet for days until her mother approved him living with them if he cleaned the floors. When they were fifteen apiece, Zayn told her he liked her, and they might've been each others' first kiss. Maybe.)

"So we'll arrive at the port in about eight hours," Caroline says. "The boat will take about one hour, and the carriage to the palace will take about two. Yes?" Zayn mutters a _oui_ and Louis nods and unceremoniously lifts her feet into Zayn's lap, who does nothing but places a hand on her ankle and rubs circles into it with his thumb. "You do know you can speak to each other," Caroline says with a smile. "I won't listen."

"It's fine," Louis says. Zayn nods along and continues with his thumb, and if Louis imagines it he might be pressing harder into her ankle.

"How'd it go?" Zayn finally asks some hours later. Louis looks away from the window.

" _Quoi_?" She asks. "How did what go?"

"Telling the King," he says, and his thumb is definitely pressing harder into her ankle. "About... you know."

"Oh," Louis says. She shrugs. "He doesn't want me around his children and I'm only allowed to call him ' _Monsieur'_ or 'Your Highness'. He wouldn't let me see my sisters for three days. Ate all my meals _dans ma chambre._ "

Zayn's eyes go wide for a fraction of a second before he realises he probably looks like an arse or something and goes back to his impassive expression. "Oh. Sorry about that."

Louis waves a dismissive hand. "It's fine. Whatever," she taps her fingers on her thigh. "He told me Ernie was set to inherit the throne if he should die rather than me."

Zayn snorts and Caroline coughs from where she isn't listening. "A, what, six-month-old baby is going to rule France? It wouldn't be much of a difference."

At that Louis erupts in laughter and Caroline hides her mouth in her hand and shakes with laughter. Zayn looks incredibly smug and he taps Louis' shin lightly with his fingers. "So you won't be Queen?"

Louis stops laughing and shakes her head. "I guess not."

"Well he's sent you on an important business thing —"

"Probably just to get rid of me until he can find a way to kick me out for wanting to marry a girl," Louis says, sighing and hitting her head back on the seat. "It's alright, though. I'd probably kick me out too."

" _Non_ ," Zayn says, sternly. He points at her. "No, you wouldn't. I know you, Louis. Even though you've got this weird view of life, don't follow by its rules — you're a really good person. Like yesterday when you gave away the food to the peasants, like. I don't know _anyone_ who would risk their place in society like that for ordinary people. You're just so selfless and you can be a complete arse when you want but I can assure you, Louis, that if your daughter tells you she wants to marry a girl when she's older when _you_ become Queen, you'll let her stay."

"That's because _I'm_ that way, too. If I were Dan I'd probably kick me out." She feels bad ignoring Zayn's whole lovely ordeal, but she does anyway. She can be an arse, and she won't deny it.

Zayn just shrugs and returns to rubbing circles into her ankle as the port comes into view over Caroline's shoulder.

\---

" _Je_ déteste _l'Angleterre,_ " Louis says for the fifth time since they've docked. Zayn rolls his eyes and holds his hand out to help her into the carriage. "It smells awful."

"We're at port, Louis," Zayn says, knocking the mud off the bottom of his boots before he closes the door of the carriage. "Of course it smells. Where's Caroline?"

Louis shrugs and fixes her skirt. "Somewhere in the carriage. Maybe in the front compartment with the ferry captain. She was giving him _les yeux_." Louis wiggles her eyebrows and Zayn laughs and his eyes twinkle.

"Have you ever been to England, Louis?" Zayn asks. Louis scoffs.

"Have I been to England. Of course I have. I've been to the palace before the princess was even born, when Queen Anne was still carrying her," she says, looking at the chipped nail she got on the ferry. She rubs the edge on her skirt until its smooth. "The princess is some two or three years younger than me."

Zayn nods. "Have you ever met her?"

Louis shakes her head. "The Queen was only twenty-two weeks. My mum used to tell me I was infatuated with her belly, though."

She doesn't remember much of her first trip to England when she was small, but from what her mother had told her that she _loved_ the Queen's belly — that it was _so_ much more interesting than her mum's flat tummy.

Zayn smiles. "That's cute." He pauses. "So then why d'you hate England?"

"Dunno," Louis says. "Just do. I have since maybe mum got pregnant with Charlotte and she wouldn't take me to England to meet the princess after she was born."

Zayn nods distractedly and watches out the window silently, tapping lightly on his thigh. "What are the chances you'll fall in love with the English princess?"

It's quite an uncalled for question and Louis' heart skips a beat underneath her blouse. " _Impossible_. She's probably already married." Though Carolines words are rapidly spinning in her head. _La princesse est_ très _jolie_. Louis can already tell she's fucked.

It takes them maybe three hours to finally reach the palace and when they finally do Louis' arse hurts from sitting so long she's about to ask Zayn to rub it for her. She doesn't, but she wants to.

They pull up and their carriage door is opened and all this _English_ floods her ears and Louis is suddenly glad she understands a little bit. Poor Zayn doesn't understand a bit and he looks incredibly confused.

"Hello, Princess," the man says, holding his hand out for her to take. "Good trip?"

Louis wracks her brain for an elaborate response. When she can't think of one she just says, " _Oui_. Yes."

She's lead into the palace by the small of her back by a portly man in his mid-40's. He's speaking to her in rapid English and she just barely understands, but she nods along accordingly and greets the people she needs to meet.

Somewhere along the way a jumpy blonde boy collides with her and apologises profusely — _en français_. "I'm so sorry — _merde! Je suis desolé, madame_." He continues apologising until she holds up her hand and he stops, seemingly breathless.

" _Pas de probleme, monsieur,_ " she says, and smiles when his face lights up.

" _Vous comprenez le français?_ " he asks.

She almost busts out laughing but decides that this boy has lived in England too long to remember who she is. " _Oui, je comprends. Moi, je suis la princesse de France, monsieur._ "

The blond boys eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and he starts tripping over his words in half-English, half-French, " _Je suis très_ sorry, ma'am. Jesus, _je ne savais pas_ — you've changed so much since I saw you _quand j'etais jeune_ —"

She cuts him off with her hand again and his mouth snaps shut. She speaks to him in all French again and the man next to her looks terribly confused. "I like you, sir. Will you walk with me and translate for me?"

As eager as anything, the boy nods. " _Oui, madame. Je m'appelle Niall,_ " he holds out his hand and looks like he's about to faint when she takes it lightly and shakes it.

" _Je m'appelle Louis_ ," she says. "Nice to meet you Niall."

With a starstruck runaway Frenchie on her side, and the 40-year-old on her other, she's walked into a grand dining hall where the woman she recognises as Queen is sat with — _la princesse_. Her heart practically stops and she feels Zayn's hand on the small of her back and his southern-France accent in her ear. "In love yet?"

Louis _is_ in love. The princess, as she calculates her to be about nineteen, has a mop of long, beautiful curly hair that settles by her shoulder blades, and green eyes that are staring intently at her. Her thumbs are covered in drawings, presumably from the quill in her hand, but they look so beautiful that they should be a part of her milky pale skin. Her red lips are upturned in a smile directed towards _Louis_ , not Zayn or Niall or portly-forty. She's wearing a simple pink blouse, a pink skirt much like Louis', and no shoes. She's perfect and Louis nods once she realises she hasn't yet answered Zayn's question. Zayn snorts in her ear and backs off.

"Louis!" Anne says, standing and walking over, her arms outstretched. "How _lovely_ to see you!"

Louis responds in French and Niall immediately translates for her. "She says, 'you too', your Highness."

Anne steps back and seems to size Louis up. "I've seen you've found my runaway, then?" She asks. Niall translates for her quickly and she nods. "Well, I'm going to have Harry take you up to the study and you can get to know each other a bit. You're staying for quite a few days correct?" After Niall translates even though she mostly understood, she smiles and nods.

It's then Harry stands with another smile and tells Niall to stay with them for translation purposes as they ascend an ornate staircase up to the second floor. They walk past some ten doors before Harry stops and reaches into her blouse and pulls out a key. "Good keeping spot, huh?" she asks. Niall nods as he translates and after Louis nods too.

"It's my favorite spot," Louis says in her best English, which is heavily accented. It's then she wonders where Zayn has gone, but she can't be brought to worry when Harry lets out this loud cackle, like it was the funniest thing she's ever heard.

"English! How do they say, Niall? _Très bon_?" she asks him. Niall nods and she repeats herself in Louis' direction. " _Votre anglais est très bon, princesse_."

Louis' heart almost stops because she's pretty _and_ she speaks her language, the language of love, _la langue d'amour._ She nods and says, "Thank you," in her very best English and Niall might laugh behind her.

Harry smiles and unlocks her door and Louis' breath is once again taken away by the _view_ Harry has in her room. She has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the whole expanse of the garden and it's honestly gorgeous. The walls are painted white and theres one painting of light blue flowers hanging on one of the walls. Her bed is simple, no mosquito net like one would expect from a princess. She has beautiful red candles lit to light the room and the floor is a creaky old wood that somehow looks incredibly good in the oddly simple room. There's a lit fire on the opposite wall and Louis wants nothing more than to go sit in front of it and warm herself up.

"Your room is very pretty," Louis says. She turns to give Niall a thumbs up, as if to say, _was my English correct?_ but finds he's gone and she's suddenly nervously in the same room as the Princess of England.

"Thank you," she says, putting a pair of stockings in a basket in the corner of her room. "It used to be my sisters until she decided royalty wasn't for her."

Louis had no idea there were _two_ princesses. "A sister?"

Harry hims and nods distractedly. "Yep, my sister Gemma. She ended up leaving and got a job at a printing press."

 _A woman with a job in 1776,_ Louis thinks. _Amazing_. She shrugs and doesn't comment, instead stands in the doorway, unsure if she's allowed to come in. When Harry looks back she frowns. "How come you're just standing there?"

It takes Louis a moment to think of the correct way to say what she wants to say, and she suddenly wishes Niall was with her. He's probably off with Zayn, given the bug eyes he was giving Zayn when Niall first ran into Louis earlier. "Am I allowed to come in?"

Harry lets out one of those loud, cackling laughs again as she nods. "Are you crazy? Of course you're allowed to come in!"

Louis nods and steps inside carefully, and once she realises the floor isn't rigged or anything, she makes her way straight over to the fire and sits herself down, holding her hands out to warm them.

Harry comes and sits down next to her and smiles. "You're cold?" She asks in French. Louis notices that her English heavily accents her French and truthfully Louis has problems understanding what she's saying. But she nods.

"Freezing," she responds in English. "It's very cold here."

"It's December," Harry says, reaching forward for the fire poker. She leans forward and pokes the fire a few times and Louis revels in the crackle and sizzle and pop the fire makes. It's possibly her favorited sound in the world.

"I know," Louis says. "My birthday is soon."

"Is it?" Harry asks, sitting back again. She unbuttons the top of her shirt a little, presumably to get herself warmer, but Louis can't help but get a funny feeling below her skirt. "What day?"

"The twenty-fourth," she says. "The day before Christmas."

Harry nods again. She seems to do that a lot. "Mine's the second of February."

Louis suddenly wants to tell Harry all about her mum's belly when Louis visited when she was small, how Louis spoke to the Queen's belly in broken French as a two-year-old and how the Queen had laughed and how her own mother had little tears rimming the edges of her eyes.

She wants to, but she doesn't.

Instead they're interrupted by a simultaneous call of their names. They both turn and Niall and Zayn are standing in the doorway, their cheeks red and, if Louis is seeing properly, Zayn's hair is a little messy. She smiles. " _Bonjour_. Your hair is a bit messy, Zayn, isn't it?"

She's completely aware that only three out of four people understand what she's just said, but she can still feel Harry smile on her back, so it's alright. Zayn starts blushing like crazy and beings stuttering out his sentence but doesn't finish once Niall smacks him on the back of the head. Louis just smiles and shakes her head. "Very non-discrete."

Zayn rolls his eyes as the words roll off his tongue, "He was showing me around."

Louis feels Harry's hand hit the side of her thigh, maybe on accident, she doesn't know, but either way a wave of heat radiates through her body and makes her shift on her behind.

Niall and Zayn turn as _supper!_ is called from somewhere downstairs. Louis turns to Harry as Niall bumps into Zayn on the way out and she giggles.

"Only an hour and they're mad for each other," Louis says. Harry smiles and nods, and pushes herself onto her feet. She holds her hand out for Louis to take and she accepts, hauling herself up with Harry's larger hand grasped in her own. " _Merci_ ," she comments with a smile.

Harry smiles again as she leads the way to the dining room downstairs. " _De rien._ "

For supper they have what Louis guesses is duck in some sort of tomato sauce with assorted vegetables, but whatever it is has her bursting at the seams as Harry takes her back up to her room after she kisses her mother good night.

"Harry?" the Queen calls as Harry mounts the first step, Louis just behind her. "Is it alright if Louis sleeps with you? We've got ambassadors coming up soon and I don't quite have the time to do the wash in the guest rooms."

Louis only really understood what she needed to, but she knows she's fucked because if she's pressed up against Harry at night there's a good chance she'll soak her panties right through. She looks up at Harry who shrugs. "Is it alright with you?"

In lieu of answering, Louis gives a thumbs up and the Queen nods and they're on their way up the grand staircase.

"So, it gets a bit cold at night," Harry says as she rifles through her drawers. "I can lend you some socks and a gown if you'd like? Or I have these warm trousers I took from Niall."

Louis shrugs. "Surprise me," she says.

Harry beams. "You can have the trousers and here's a sweater as well."

Louis thinks it's all well and good, that she'll make it through a few nights in the same bed as the princess — until Harry starts stripping off right in front of her.

"Wh— what are you doing?" Louis asks, clutching her pyjamas to her chest. Harry raises her eyebrows.

"Changing. Does that bother you?" She asks. She has this mischievous twinkle in her eye and Louis shakes her head.

"No, sorry," Louis says. "Continue." And she does, and Louis shamelessly ogles her.

The first thing Louis notices is her breasts — they're these perfectly round and perky things, much bigger than her own. She immediately wants to take one of her nipples in her mouth and —

"Louis?" Harry asks, possibly for the fifth time, Louis doesn't know. Harry's standing still, he breasts still out, and a stocking half exposing a milky white thigh. "You okay?"

Louis nods and instead of embarrassing herself, she turns and quickly puts on her own pyjamas. When she turns back around she pretends not to notice Harry's eyes dart away from her hips. Harry claps her hands. "Bed?"

Louis nods and lets Harry pull back the duvet and climb in first. After Harry's stared her down long enough, she gets in and presses herself up alongside Harry for warmth. She shivers.

" _Froid_?" Harry asks, with her funny English-accented French. Louis nods.

" _Très_ ," she responds, lightly running her fingertip over the top of the duvet. It's just a simple stitched blue, like the rest of the room, but it's something to keep her wandering hands occupied so as not to do something stupid like shove her hands down the front of Harry's gown.

"If you're alright with it," Harry says, spreading her arms, "you can cuddle with me."

Louis' heart stops, her stomach twists into knots, and a wave of arousal washes over her all at the same moment when she scoots herself so her backside is against Harry's front and Harry's nose is in her hair. She ignores the deep breath Harry takes behind her and instead focuses on keeping herself under control.

Luckily, she doesn't have to, though, because Harry extinguishes the final candle on the nightstand and drowsiness takes over Louis and she drifts to sleep.

\---

Louis wakes up cold again, turning over to find Harry's gone. She has no clue what time it is, let alone why Harry left her _own room_ before Louis — but she gets up and sits in front of the fire and warms herself as much as she can before she deems herself lively.

She walks gently down the stairs and listens for signs of life. She hops down the final stair and her ears pick up the sound of chatter from the dining room.

She meanders her way into the room and is greeted with a sleepy-eyed Harry, a boisterous Niall, and a disgruntled Zayn. There's a platter of eggs in the center, cooked ham, grits, and various out-of-season fruits. Harry smiles at her and pushes out the chair next to her.

" _Bon matin_ ," Zayn says, his eyes almost completely shut. "Niall woke me too fucking early."

"Oi!" Niall says, slapping his arm. Niall rambles on in his signature half-French half-English wording while Louis sits down next to Harry, who spoons her a gracious amount of eggs, two slices of ham, and three enormous pieces of pineapple.

" _Je n'aime pas les oeuvres_ ," she says, pointing to the eggs. Harry raises her brows.

"You don't like eggs?" she asks. Louis nods and Harry scrapes them onto her own plate. "Oatmeal then?"

She shakes her head and tongs herself two more slices of ham and a few more of the pineapple. She thinks Harry watches her as she cuts the ham and fruit into little pieces and eats them together, and she starts to get nervous under her gaze until Niall curses loudly as he spills his tea on his lap.

After breakfast Harry asks if Louis wants to bathe. "Please," she responds. Harry leads her to the bath in the barn in the back.

"Mum says water is scarce right now," she says as she heats the water over the fire. "Would you like — be opposed to sharing a bath? I need to wash too, it's been a few days."

Louis thinks there's a damn waterfall between her legs, honestly. She nods as Harry dumps the first bucket of water into the tub.

Ten buckets later they're sat across from each other in a large open barrell, their toes touching occasionally and Harry soaping up her arms quickly as the water cools.

"I hate soap," Harry says, rubbing some in her hair. "Makes my skin draggy."

Louis agrees, soap these days is pretty shitty — but all she can think is about all she can _see_ of Harry — her breasts floating at the top of the water, her flat tummy and her pubes distorted under the water. Louis wants nothing more than to _touch_.

She doesn’t, however. Instead she just takes the soap from Harry’s outstretched hand and lathers herself. She washes carefully, making sure all the English-harbor-dirt is out from behind her ears and in between her toes. She’s completely away of Harry watching her every move, really, and she should be bothered. She is — but it’s more _hot_ and bothered than anything.

“Good?” Harry asks when she hands back the soap. The water has long cooled by now, it’s a bit dirty, and somehow they’re sitting next to each other. Louis nods.

“ _Bon_ ,” she says. “Thank you.”

Harry grins. “Anytime. Sorry again about having to share,” she says, rubbing a hand behind her damp hair. “Like I said, the well is acting up lately.”

Louis cocks her head to the side. “You never said that.”

Harry scrunches up her eyebrows and tilts her head, too. “I didn’t?”

“You just asked if it was okay to bathe together.”

All of a sudden Harry looks incredibly flushed and she shakes her head. “I was — I wa meaning to tell you. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Louis insists. “Nothing wrong with bathing with a pretty girl.”

And there it is. She’s said it. It’s out in the open, enough to float around and sizzle in the air and shimmer and glow above their heads. Harry reacts fairly — her eyes widen and she sloshes a large amount of water out of the tub in surprise, and her cheeks go tomato red.

“Did you just call me pretty, Louis?” Harry seems a bit spacey, like maybe she’s in some sort of trance.

Louis nods. “ _Oui_.”

Just as abruptly as it all started, it’s over. Harry gets up and grabs the towels she set on the bench and hands one to Louis, toweling herself off and tipping over the barrel, letting the water slosh out onto the ground and seep through the dirt. “I’ll meet you in the grand hall in a bit — I’m going to change in the bathroom, if you don’t mind. Feel free to take my room. The grand hall is just past the dining room, with the big chandelier. Okay?” Harry says, putting her slippers on. She leaves before Louis can even formulate a question like _what the bloody hell is a chandelier_?

On her way up she passes Zayn in the hallway, sitting with Niall smoking a cigarette and chatting animatedly. They both look up as she passes and for once in her life, Zayn doesn’t try to look up her towel, and she _know’s_ Niall’s got him wrapped around his finger after a day. “Niall?” She asks.

“Yes, miss?”

“Louis is fine,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “What’s _chandelier_? The thing in the grand hall?” She asks.

Zayn stares at her, confused with the word too, and Niall wracks his brain for a proper French translation. “I’m almost positive it’s _un lustre_. It’s like a big lamp hanging from the ceiling? This one’s got little diamonds that sometimes clink together when the house shakes,” he says, his fingers tapping on Zayn’s thigh. He turns to Zayn. “In the grand hall, that lamp hanging from the ceiling? That’s what it’s called, right? _Un lustre_?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, _lustre_.”

Louis nods and shifts her towel up and thanks them both and trudges down the hall to Harry’s room and is (unpleasantly surprised to find it empty like Harry said it would be.

She suddenly wonders if calling Harry pretty had taken it too far, that maybe Harry gets naked in front of everyone — the Prince of Wales, the Duke of York, the Princess of Spain, Niall. She wonders if Harry likes _boys_ like a normal girl should and she smacks her forehead with a groan and turns abruptly out of the room and stalks back to Niall and Zayn. “Does Harry like girls?” She asks in English, fearing Zayn will hear, as she approaches Niall again. He blinks twice.

“Um, I guess? I don’t know. I’ve never really asked.”

“Has she proper had a boyfriend?” she pries. Niall shakes his head.

With no help from Niall, she turns to Zayn, who was the first person to figure out Louis didn’t like boys even _before_ Louis knew. “Zayn, _Harry est une lesbienne_?”

Zayn looks taken aback. “ _Je ne sais pas, Louis_ ,” he answers. “She’s got a complicated vibe. You _radiate_ gay — Harry’s complicated.”

Louis huffs frustratedly and leans back against the wall. In French she says: “I called her pretty and she flipped out on me and wouldn’t even change in the same room as me. It’s like I flipped a switch or something, like flipped on her no-homo radar.”

Zayn chuckles after _no-homo_ and Niall smacks his arm. “I mean, I guess Harry’d be a bit uncomfortable sitting naked in a tub with another girl and being called pretty. Anyone would be, really.”

Louis huffs again. “I’d sit you two in a bath and you’d fuck on the spot,” she spits. Niall grins, Zayn chokes, and Louis stomps off to Harry’s room again and finally changes. She puts on the skirt and blouse she arrived in and fixes her wet hair in the mirror.

She leans against Harry’s drawers, staring at herself in the mirror. There’s a spot forming on her chin. She pushes it between two fingertips before it pops and she wipes it with a spare rag on the drawers.

Louis heads down to the grand hall, passing through the diningroom where there’s a man setting the table. “Hello,” he says, smiling. “I’m Simon, the chef.”

Louis shakes his extended hand. “Louis Tomlinson, Princess of France,” she says. Chef Simon’s eyes widen and he bows his head.

“So sorry, my Princess. Pleasure to meet you.” It takes all Louis has not to pull away and not to giggle when Simon kisses her outstretched hand. “Did you like last night’s meal? And this morning’s breakfast?”

Louis nods. “I’m not particular about eggs, but ham and,” she pauses, forgetting the word for _pineapple_. “Er, _l’anana_. Yes?”

Simon shakes his head. “No, sorry. I don’t understand.”

She wishes so badly that Niall and Zayn weren’t snogging in the bath right about now, that Niall could translate so she can say fucking _pineapple_ to this guy. She waves her hand dismissively. “The fruit,” she says, “was excellent. And the meal last night — what was that?”

Simon shrugs. “Just something I tried. Normally for supper it’s cold turkey, a few cooked fruits, and some boiled potatoes. I just threw some foods into a pot and let it cook over the fire, and I assume it was delicious.”

“Did you not have any?” she asks, surprised. Back home her father, sisters, brother, Caroline, Zayn, the few other servants, and Chef Liam all eat together at the big table nearly every night, save Christmas when they eat together in front of the fire.

Simon shakes his head. “No, I’m not allowed to eat what I make for the Queen and Princess,” he says. “My crew and I generally have cold meat and beans.”

Louis shrugs. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re a fantastic chef,” she says, and Simon beams. “If you’ll excuse me, though, sir, I’ve to go.” She curtsies like her mother taught her to do only in the presence of someone important, but she does it because this man doesn’t get to eat with his employers and it’s unfair.

“Of course, miss,” he says. “See you later!”

She nods and waves as she pushes through the doors on the other side of the dining room into the great hall where that chandelier thing is and Harry and some younger man are sat at a table, talking quietly. Harry’s giggling at something the man has said, and Louis immediately doesn’t like him.

“Hi Louis,” she says, her face falling a bit flat. “This is Nicholas Grimshaw, Prince of Spain.”

He stands and holds out his tanned hand, and introduces himself with a heavy Spanish accent. “Nick is fine, Princess. I didn’t catch your name?”

Louis grimaces as she shakes his hand. “Louis Tomlinson, Princess of France.” In a split second she adds: “ _Vous êtes un poulet_?”

Harry’s eyes widen comically fast as Nick raises his eyebrows in confusion? “Sorry?”

Louis asks again, in French still. “You are a chicken?”

Harry pushes her finger into Louis’ side. “Cut it out, Louis,” she says, glaring. “Not funny.”

“ _Très amuse_ ,” she says, sitting down across from them and folding her hands.

After a beat of silence Harry clears her throat. “Right, so. Trading deal?” She questions. She pulls a stack of papers from the chair next to her and glances to each one before handing them out. Louis is pleasantly surprised to find that hers is written in French.

It’s a relatively simple statement — France trades furs and slaves with Spain and England, who in return, Spain trades gold and silver and slaves, and England trades tea, coffee, and fruits, vegetables, and salt. Louis reads over it a few times to make sure there are no loopholes, like her mother taught her to do, and nods. “Sounds alright.”

“I’m not sure my mother will approve of trading her gold with the French,” Nick says, his brows furrowed and his lip caught between his teeth. Louis proper _despises_ him.

“We have four times as many slaves as America does and you still trade with them,” Louis chides. Nick smirks.

“Fur just isn't _needed_ in Spain. Tobacco, cotton, vegetables — _those_ are needed. We can get them all through England,” he says. He turns to Harry. “I think it’d be wise to cute France out of the deal.”

Louis is going to lose it. She really is. But before she can Harry says: “No, Nicholas. This is a three-way deal. England _needs_ fur. It’s cold as bollocks here right now and fur is a good thing. They’ve also got other good things going for them. Either you trade your damn gold with France or we haven’t a deal.”

Nick blinks, Louis almost weeps with joy, and Harry glares at both of them, but (Louis would like to think) more towards Nick.

Finally Nick sighs and grabs the quill from the center of the table. He signs his bill and pushes it to the middle. “Fine. Take our gold, we’ll take your damn fur.”

Louis smiles and signs her own just as Harry does, and Harry stacks all three papers and stands to leave the room, presumably to give them to her mother.

As soon as she’s gone, it’s like a world war. “What’s your problem?” she asks Nick. He looks mock-taken aback and he puts a hand to his mouth.

“ _Me_? What’s wrong with me? If I heard correctly you asked me if I was a chicken,” he says, mock offended.

Louis scowls. “You don’t even _speak_ my language,” she spits. “And when the hell did you even _get_ here?”

Nick sits back in his chair, his arms folded, and plays with a loose strand of his dark hair. “I can deduce that _poulet_  sounds like _pollo_ , gorgeous. _Pollo_ meaning ‘chicken’, in Spanish, mind you,” he holds his hand up and pretends to pick under his nail. “Arrived just an hour ago. The Princess greeted me at the door. Very courteous, she is, kissing my cheek. Felt proper _welcomed_.”

It’s as if Nick _knows_ Louis likes her. And it occurs to him maybe he does — maybe Harry told him all about the bath incident and the ogling when she was changing last night. “And how long are you staying?”

“Well, let me ask you, Princess,” he says, leaning forward, this devilish smirk plastered to his tanned face. “How long are _you_ staying, my dear?”

“This is my second day out of ten,” she says. She thinks. She could be leaving tomorrow for all she knows. Nick’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s no doubt taken aback this time. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Now it’s Louis’ turn again. “And where are you sleeping?”

Nick shrugs. “Guest room, I assume.”

Louis crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m sharing a room with Harry, if you wanted to know. She’s quite warm.”

Nick raises his eyebrows and smirks. “You don’t think I already know what her bed feels like, darling?”

That’s it, that’s where Louis loses it and lunges across the table, spilling the ink, and smacking him whenever she can reach — his chest, his face, his crotch — until she’s pulled off by Zayn and she really doesn’t know what had gotten into her.

\---

“Louis?” There’s a knock on the door and Harry’s voice sounds through it. “Can I come in?”

Louis wants to say _no, go away you prick_ but she doesn’t. She mumbles out a weak _yes_ and the door swings open slowly and Harry stands in the doorway, a worried look on her face. “Are you alright?”

Of course Louis _isn’t_ alright. Her lip is bloodied and she’s got a bruise blooming just under her left eye. She’s fought with the Prince of Spain and possibly prevented him from ever having children. She’s quite honestly in love with the Princess of England and the Prince of Spain has slept with her.

“Did you sleep with Nick?” She blurts. Her brain-to-mouth filter went out the window with her judgement when she started to hit Nick. Harry’s eyes widen and she sits down on the floor next to Louis and takes her hand in two of her larger ones.

“No,” she says, earnestly. And Louis wants to believe her, she really does, but. She can’t. “Why?”

“He told me he knew what your bed felt like,” she says, her free hand picking at a bloodstain on her blouse from her lip. Harry snorts.

“He sat on it a few years back when his parents came over for the same type of deal and declined,” she says. “I’d never sleep with that scum, honestly.”

Louis whips her head up. “Really?”

“Really,” Harry says slowly, seemingly confused about Louis’ sudden eagerness. She whispers: “I don’t even like boys.”

That’s it. The God’s must’ve owed Louis something, or they just like her, because _Harry likes girls_. “Don’t tell anyone, though,” she says. “My mum will kill me if I can’t have heirs to the throne.”

Louis runs her fingers over her lips like a zipper and tosses away the fake key. “Secrets safe with me.”

Harry smiles and then frowns. “What about you?”

Louis scrunches up her nose. “I don’t like boys either, you know? Zayn’s had a crush on me forever and he was the one who figured it out when I used to generously feed this one peasant girl more than the other beggars outside the palace once,” she says. Harry’s hands feel warm around hers.

“You feed the peasants?” She asks, her eyes wide.

Louis nods. “The chef in the palace really likes me, so I always take food against my step-father’s orders and bring it out to the gates for the people to have. I mean, we won’t eat thirty loaves of bread before they go stale, right?” Harry nods as she speaks and smiles.

“That’s very brave of you. And kind,” Harry says. “I could never do that. I’d fear my mum would hate me.”

Louis nods. “The King’s hated me since my mum died and I told him I liked girls. My mum use to go and feed the peasants with me, and he always hated it, so when she died, it became like, this disparaged thing.”

“Your mum died?”

Louis fights the urge not to cry and roll her eyes all in one go. “About two years ago,” she says. “She died giving birth to the King’s twins. My first brother,” she smiles into her lap. “I love them more than anything. I love my whole family, minus Dan. Zayn’s like family as well, you know? Known him since I was little.

Harry nods again. “How’d you meet him?” Louis tells her and Harry smiles. “That’s so lovely Louis.” She pauses and squeezes her hand. “ _You’re_ so lovely.”

Louis is blushing, she can feel it everywhere (literally). She fights the urge to lean forward and smush her face against Harry’s in a sloppy kiss, she really does. Of course, she does it anyway.

It’s tender and sweet and quick, and it’s over rather quicker than Louis would’ve liked. She opens her eyes and Harry’s are still closed, her eyebrows raised in shock, but she hasn’t moved and hasn’t thrown up, so Louis takes it as a good sign.

Harry opens her eyes, those big, green, expansive fields enclosed in a glass ball, and cocks her head to the side, staring at Louis. “That was… That was nice,” she says. She smiles.

“Yeah?” Louis asks. “Would you do it again?”

Harry smirks and stands. “Probably,” she answers, and shuts the door on her way out.

(Louis doesn’t know what it’s called in English, but in French it’s _toucher vous-même_. If you’re curious, she suggests you look it up. It’ll make a lot of sense, because that’s what she did when Harry left.)

\---

By day four, Louis is restless and Harry is teasing. She’s undressing slower in front of Louis, almost like those prostitutes her mum used to talk about, and Harry’s asking for shared baths _everyday_. They’ve kissed once, just the one two days ago after Louis smacked the hell out of Nick, and Louis is itching for more than just a kiss, she really is.

They’re in another bath together, Louis washing Harry’s neck and back when the topic comes up. “Have you ever had sex?” Harry asks abruptly. Louis stops.

“Does it depend on gender?” she asks, beginning to soap up her back again and dump scoops of water down it with her hand. Harry shakes her head. “Then yes.”

Harry turns around, and Louis jumps, sloshing water out onto the dirt. “You _have_?”

Louis lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, I have. Is that a surprise?”

“With who?” she asks, water clinging to her eyelashes. It’s beautiful, honestly. Louis shrugs.

“Zayn, some important man’s son from Naples and another from Corsica, um —” Harry puts a hand over her mouth.

“I get it, thanks,” she says. “Any _girls_?”

Louis looks up to the sky as if it’ll aid her thinking if she should lie or not. She goes with the latter. “Nope.”

Harry grins. “Okay. Just wondering.” She turns back around and lets Louis finish rinsing off her back. “But would you? If you were given the chance?”

“Absolutely,” she says, and Harry turns around and grins again.

They share their second, third, and fourth kisses in the bath before Harry gets out and informs her of another bill they’ve to look over. “It should be a short one,” she says. “Mum didn’t make it seem like such a big deal.”

Louis nods and they head up to her room together, passing Zayn and Niall smoking in the hallway again (“You’re going to set this bloody place on _fire_ , Niall. Do it outside.”) and they dress in front of each other and Harry even asks Louis for help with buttoning her shirt. “These bloody things always get in the way,” Harry complains, poking at one of her breasts defeatedly.

“I think they’re lovely,” Louis says offhandedly. Harry snorts and steps away, and kiss number five is administered, quick and warm and Harry’s on her way to the grand hall even before Louis can register to pucker her lips and close her eyes.

She follows down in a sort of daze, flipping Zayn off when he whistles at her dopey expression and when she nearly trips down the stairs. The grand hall is thankful empty except for Harry and some papers, but her expression is a bit solemn. “I guess I lied about it being quick. Well, if we were adults.”

“I’m an adult,” Louis counters. “I’m _vingt-et-un_.” Harry looks at her, confused. “Twenty-one,” she clarifies. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Almost twenty-two,” Harry says, pointing her finger at her. “Old lady, you are. I might fuck an old lady.”

Louis chokes and Harry giggles, handing over the French papers and Harry’s right — if they weren’t head-over-heels for each other and they hated each others’ guts like they were supposed to, this _would_ take a long time.

But for some reason, the higher authority thinks it’s a good idea for two lovesick lesbians to sign a peace treaty between the two most powerful countries in the world who’ve hated each other for centuries upon centuries.

The signatures are scribed and stacked in the middle of the table and somehow Harry ends up in Louis’ lap, her legs bracketing Louis’ torso and their lips pressed together.

Harry lets out a little tiny moan and rocks her hips forward into Louis’ belly, and if Louis knew any better she’d sneak a hand down in between them and do it herself, help Harry get friction with her own fingers, but Harry’s off her lap in a flash, standing in the doorway. “You know,” she says from the doorway. “There’s a ball tomorrow night, and I’d like to take you.”

Louis grins. “You would, would you?”

Harry beams at her and nods. “It’s some boring affair for those ambassadors and a bunch of other royalty from countries I don’t proper care about because _France_ has the best Princess, anyway.”

Louis is blushing again as Harry walks out of the room, leaving her hot and bothered and wanting and charmed all at the same time. There’s a thud above her and she looks up. The thud comes again and she gets up to investigate, skirting up the stairs and down the hallway until — oh. She hears it. She smirks, and kicks the door, yelling: “Quiet down you two! _Vous êtes_ très _fort au lit!_ ” There are no more thuds but a familiar male, French _fuck you, Louis!_ sounds through the door and she skips off merrily down to Harry’s room.

\---

If Louis was expecting a small affair, she should’ve just left, really. Because when she enters behind Zayn and Niall (who are arm in arm, mind you), there’s seemingly a million people, beautiful decorations, and a fucking _string quartet_. Louis is _done_ with England. Maybe she doesn’t hate it anymore (scratch that: she _certainly_ doesn’t hate it anymore), but she’s quite done with all this fancy shit.

Harry runs up to her from somewhere amongst the crowd and throws her arms around her neck, kissing her cheek discreetly. “Where’ve you been?” she practically shouts over the roar of people and classical music. She’s rubbing her arms up and down Louis’ wimpy ones and it’s strangely comforting. “Come dance!” she says.

She pulls Louis through the crowd and — past the crowd, out the back doors, and out onto the back lawn, where it’s much quieter. She pulls her farther, away from the millions of candles lit to light up the party, until there’s only a soft glow hitting their faces and everything looks calm. “Better?” Harry asks.

“Much less loud,” Louis agrees, nodding. Harry slots her fingers into Louis, and then decides against it and puts her arms around her neck instead.

“Let’s dance,” Harry says.

“There’s no music,” Louis says, smiling. “We can’t hear it anymore.”

“Play some music in your head!” Harry says, smiling. “Think of Boyce’s second symphony. I _love_ that one!”

Louis has no idea what that is, but all of a sudden her hands are laced with Harry’s again and they’re skipping wildly around the garden in circles, laughing and starting to sweat and getting all red-faced under the stars.

It ends quickly when a few men come out to smoke and spot them, throwing them strange glances, so they collapse on the grass instead, out of breath and still giggly next to each other. “That was fun,” Harry says. “You’re a good dancer!”

“Only because you dragged me around with you,” Louis counters, though she knows Harry can hear the smile in her voice. “But thank you, Princess.”

Harry looks over at her. “Why’d you call me Princess? Aren’t we past that now. We’re on a first-name basis, Tomlinson.”

Louis turns her head and see’s that Harry’s smirking at her, her eyes twinkling. And then somehow she’s on top of her, their lips attached and little moans escaping their mouths.

Harry’s hand travels down her back and stops just above her waistband, smoothing the material over her arse slowly to match the pace of her lips, and it drives Louis crazy.

Harry’s hand moves again, this time in between them, and goes past her waistband, straight to her clit and Louis yelps, bites hard on Harry’s lip, who moans and pulls her hand free.

They’re panting, chests flush together, and Harry says: “My room, now.”

They stumble in, kissing each other anywhere they can, their hands grasping each other for purchase, and flinging off items of clothing one by one until they’re naked and fall onto Harry’s bed. Louis’ on top this time and the first thing she does, the thing she’s wanted to do since she’s been here, is she attaches her lips to Harry’s breast and sucks. Harry preens under her, her hips bucking up and a pretty whine escaping her lips as Louis makes a purple bruise bloom just above her nipple. She makes three more, one on her other breast, in about the same place, one just above her belly button, and one on her hip bone that juts out prettily against her pale skin.

Louis really doesn’t know how to do this, how to touch a girl this way, but she figures it’s the same as touching herself and soon finds out it’s the same, essentially. She sticks her finger in her mouth and gets it all wet, listens to Harry’s laboured breathing below her, and slowly pushes it in, and Harry’s gone, moaning like crazy, her breathing erratic as Louis pumps the finger in and out slowly.

She runs her free hand up and down Harry’s body, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, rubbing her sensitive clit which drives her mad with pleasure. She adds a second finger and rubs them along the top of her walls. Harry lets out this squeal and clenches hard. “G-go back, Louis, _shit_ — do that again,” she pants. Louis does it, rubs her fingers along the top of her walls inside and rubs her clit at the same time. Harry shouts and clenches again when Louis’ finger brushes over a different textured spot in her, and she presses and just like that Harry’s coming around her fingers, in hot, wet pulses that go on for days and days and have harry laying pliant and tired underneath her.

Louis thinks that’s it, that she should just tuck them into bed and kiss her goodnight. She’s incredibly surprised when Harry sits up, grabs her wrist, and sucks Louis’ dirty fingers right into her mouth, covered in her own juices, and sucks them clean. Harry tugs her wrist out with a pop and then pulls Louis over her, kissing her and massaging her arse, her sides, her breasts.

“God,” Harry says between kisses. “I wish I had a dick so I could fuck you.”

Louis laughs into her mouth and then she’s being flipped over and her nipple is in Harry’s mouth, being bitten and licked and it’s better than any of the boys she’s been with could _ever_ do. Harry’s tongue is soft and doesn’t stay still for too long, her teeth bite down hard enough that it hurts but not hard enough that it’s too painful. It feels so good and it only gets better when Harry detaches completely and moves down the bed so her face is in between her legs.

She’s experienced this before with boys — the feeling of someone’s mouth on her pussy like this. It’s a whole nother _realm_ when Harry does it though. She starts off slow, just kissing the insides of her thighs gently, nipping at the skin. Above her Louis is trying to keep herself calm, prays she doesn’t orgasm right away like she used to with boys. Harry kisses around her folds, gently, teasingly over her clit, and experimentally flicks her tongue out on it. It’s a fabulous sensation, to say the least, and Louis’ hand tangles in Harry’s hair and she chokes out _more_.

Harry obliges, moving her tongue over her folds and licking in fat stripes, pointing her tongue and fucking it in and out of her, slowly rubbing Louis’ clit with her index finger as her tongue explores.

Her face is covered in spit by the time Louis warns her she’s going to come, but she doesn’t let up, in fact rubs harder and points her tongue more until Louis comes uncontrollably into Harry’s mouth, pulsing for ages and shaking with the intensity of it.

She thinks she might black out because the next thing Louis knows her back is pressed to Harry’s front and Harry’s slow breathing is tickling her ear. Harry shifts behind her and she realises they’re both still naked, and she smiles. “You leave tomorrow,” Harry says into her ear. Louis turns in her grip.

"What?" she asks. Harry takes a deep breath and clears her throat.

"Mum told me you leave tomorrow," she says again. "Sorry."

Louis tries to take deep, steadying breaths, but it doesn't work and she ends up falling asleep with her face against Harry's chest.

\---

Zayn's holding the carriage door open with one hand and writing down the palace address onto Niall's forearm with the other, this incredibly sad look etched onto his face. Louis watches from the doorway of the palace with Harry's arm around her shoulders, still sated and wobbly from sleep. She's practically supporting Harry's whole weight.

"You'll write me, _oui_?" Louis asks, turning her head so her nose is just inches from Harry's. Harry puckers her lips and kisses Louis' nose.

"Yes Princess," she says. "I absolutely will."

“Good,” Louis says back, smiling. “I’m going to miss you, Styles.”

Harry hums. “Not sure it’s the same feeling back, love.”

“You arse,” Louis responds. She’s smiling though. “But really, I am going to miss you.”

Harry moves her arm and her hand rests on the small of Louis’ back. “Gonna miss you too, Princess.”

Then Caroline is beside them, a knowing look in her eyes, and Louis, without thinking of any of the consequences, places a chaste kiss to Harry’s mouth and bites her lip. She smiles as Caroline pulls her away and Zayn shuts the carriage door.

“Remind me,” Caroline says, slumping down in the seat as they pull away from the palace, “to not let you two meet _any_ attractive royalty. Ever.”

Zayn still looks sad, but Louis is bubbly and happy and she’s a little sad because the chances of her seeing Harry again are slim to none — but she’s happy.

It’s silent for a while — Caroline has them stop so she can sit up with the driver in the nippy air, and Zayn sulks for what feels like ages, until —

“Did you and Harry, like, have sex?”

“Pardon?” she asks. It feels good to speak in all French again. Her brain was beginning to hurt with all the work it was doing.

“I asked if you and Harry did the deed,” he repeats, his face still mostly pouty but all-too beautiful.

(Sometimes Louis thinks she’s in between about boys and girls. She doesn’t know what to call it. Caroline once said it’s called _être bisexuelle_. Doesn’t matter — she still fucked Harry.)

“Yeah,” she responds. She thinks for a moment but already knows the answer when she asks, “Did you fuck Niall?”

Zayn snorts. “I might’ve. I might’ve not.”

“I literally just told you I had my face between the Princess of England’s legs, and you won’t tell me if you had your dick in his arse? Pussy,” she scoffs. Zayn groans.

“When you put it that way it sounds creepy,” he complains. He sighs. “Yeah, we did. Like, eight times.”

“We were only really there for like, five days,” Louis counters. “You’ve forgotten how to count? He must’ve fucked the senses right out of you, Zayn Malik.”

Louis knows she’s being an asshole, but the only other person Zayn’s been with is, well, Louis. She absolutely has a right to make fun of him. Totally.

Zayn smiles. “I’m aware we were there five days.”

“Gross,” Louis mutters.

\---

Thirteen days later Louis is in the palace playing with Ernie and helping Daisy put her hair in pigtails when there’s a knock on the door and then “Louis!” is being shouted. She excuses herself and heads to the front where —

Harry _fucking_ Styles, Princess of England, is standing in her doorway.

She runs over to her and jumps — literally — into her arms, kisses her right on the mouth, and says, “You know, you could’ve just written me.”

“Good to see you too,” Harry says, kissing her nose. “And I can’t play with your hair through a letter.”

**Author's Note:**

> comment and kudos are ALWAYS appreciated in my house!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
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